


The Seven Year Courtship

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: Theirrelationship,for lack of a better term, started when Potter invited him out for a piss up.Now, as Draco stared down at the luminous green potion, he regretted ever letting this thing with Potter go beyond that first drunken night.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 50
Kudos: 765
Collections: HD Mpreg 2020





	The Seven Year Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> Love to the mod, love to the fest. 
> 
> Not my characters, just hanging in the sandbox. 
> 
> Also not nearly as long as anticipated since it's been a weird hectic life. 
> 
> Hang in there, everyone <3

  
  


Their  _ relationship _ , for lack of a better term, started when Potter invited him out for a piss up. It’d been just after the first of many charity events Draco would host, and had been after the first of several public break-ups for Potter. Draco had awkwardly stood, along with a few dozen or so others, watching as the entire thing fell apart in the Ministry’s atrium. They’d just auctioned Potter off for a day with some fan and his date lost her fucking shit. Potter just stood there with a sour look on his face while she’d stormed off—intent on the Floo. Not long after, the night continued as it was meant to; full of dull talks and pretend niceties. Later that evening, while Draco was busy directing the house-elves in their cleanup, Potter stumbled over with an offer to go get a drink. It was the kind of invitation a man only extended to his boyhood rival when he’d lost all hope in finding love; Draco recognised the signs of desperation. At the time, Draco had been just as lonely and foolishly followed Potter into a seedy, darkened corner of the Leaky. An hour later found them in the loo, grinding against one another while they shared kisses that were more bite than romantic. 

That was near seven years ago. 

Now, as Draco stared down at the luminous green potion, he regretted ever letting this thing with Potter go beyond that first drunken night. 

**

Pansy blinked her heavily mascaraed lashes at him, while her red mouth pulled into a pinched, sour pucker. “You’re  _ what _ ?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Pansy, you heard me,” Draco sniffed in a disdainful manner. 

“I was hoping you’d say you were joking,” she sighed. The delicate bone china of her cup clattered ominously when she sat it gracelessly on its saucer. Around them a titer of gossip ran through the room; Afternoon Tea at The Maladora Hotel was what societal princes and princesses did without thought or care of the expense. All of them sipping expensive teas, from priceless cups, in a place ordinary witches and wizards only visited on special occasions.

It reminded Draco of something Potter said to him most recently— _ You’re a fucking brat, Malfoy. Your lot looks down on people who don’t live lavishly, and it’s sick. You give backhanded compliments and all of you try to tear each other down with the showing off of expensive trinkets, false niceties, and rumours. I feel sorry for any fucking kid you have.  _ Potter had fucked him roughly after another of Draco’s attempts to introduce him to society. Of course, Potter had wanted none of the posturings, so he’d grabbed Draco by the wrist. Apparated them to Draco’s home, where Potter had bent him over the kitchen counter while he fisted his hands in Draco’s hair.

He was lost in the memories when Pansy said, “Draco, tell me you’re not keeping it.” 

That startled him. 

Draco hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Weighing his options wasn’t even on his mind when he’d Floo’d Pansy, after his test potion’s result, and demanded she join him for tea.

Now Pansy had thrown the reality of what was going on at him, and Draco was less than prepared. 

Rules be damned Pansy pulled out her cigarettes with a frown marring her lovely face, and lit one while she visibly thought over the secrets Draco had just shared with her. By the time her cigarette was sucked down to the filter, Pansy appeared less irritated, and her voice was gentle when she spoke. “Who are you going to tell first, your mother or Potter?” 

**

They weren’t friends nor were they arch-rivals. Draco couldn’t explain the limbo of the situation if he tried. Greg needled him for more information when he and Pansy strong-armed Draco into a weekend at the Isle of Wight. The day was warm while the three of them sat watching the sea. 

“What are you then, Draco? If you aren’t friends, aren’t enemies, and aren’t lovers?” Greg wasn’t the brightest, but he had moments when he surprised Draco—as he did now. Draco turned his face up towards the sun, hoping that it would give him some answers. 

None came, and so he sat, silent, as he thought of a way to explain what he was to Potter and what Potter was to him. He’d never been invited to watch Potter play for the Magpies. Nor had Draco ever asked Potter for tickets. Potter usually had an over the top birthday party each year, and for the past seven years that’d he’d known Potter—in the biblical sense—Draco had not been invited. Draco, in turn, never invited Potter to his own lavish birthday celebrations. Potter never introduced Draco to his adoptive son, Teddy. The papers loved to photograph them together, and Potter seemed to spend quite a bit of time with the child. Even still, he’d never once invited Draco to meet the boy; despite the fact Draco and Narcissa were the last of Teddy’s blood relations. Then again, Draco had never extended the offer to try and meet his cousin. Potter never invited Draco into conversations with his friends, when they all happened to be at the same charity functions. An occurrence which happened often. Draco didn’t try to invite Potter to mingle with his friends, either. 

Really the only time they interacted was when they were sharing breath as they pawed at each other with near-violent, angry desperation. 

“Draco,” Greg said, a soft uncertainty in his tone, “Are-” 

Draco cut him off, “Lonely. Potter and I are lonely.”

Pansy snorted, “The world could’ve told you that, darling.” 

** 

Mother joined Draco on Diagon while Father continued his queer new life as a vagabond artist. “Where are you now,” Draco enquired when they were seated at tea. Mother waited for the hostess to go back to her post before she spoke. Still wary of the tongues than never ceased in their wagging. 

“Montmartre,” she confided with a smile Draco hadn’t seen since his early childhood. “He spends most of his days naked, at the window, looking out across the world.” Draco nearly choked on his tea, and his mother must’ve noticed by the way she arched an elegant eyebrow at him as she hid her smirk against the rim of her teacup. 

Through tea Mother appeared different, more at ease—free—and Draco found himself stunned into silence by her glow of happiness. 

“You’re different,” he informed, at last, and her smile was fond. 

“I’m happy,” Mother admitted. “I haven’t seen your father this jubilant since before your grandfather’s passing.” 

Draco could recall those years—vaguely now that the war stole most of his joyful memories. That was during the time when they’d lived together in a rock cottage off the Côte de Granit Rose in Brittany. Before his birth, and up until the time he was near eight, his parents had flourished in love. Draco still had photographic proof hidden away in his home. Moments of them smiling private grins before stealing kisses that were less than chaste. Then Grandfather died and the euphoric set to Father’s eyes went with Abraxas Malfoy to the stars. Father spoke more often of duty, of the good of the family, of the state of the world, and between he and Mother a tension was born. Draco couldn’t recall much of his happy childhood—the one he saw in pictures rather than remembered—but he could clearly conjure the image of his mother weeping the day their cottage sold. 

A piece of them all died that day, and Mother had mourned their loss openly. 

Then life at Malfoy Manor began; where they grew into pretend and public niceties while at home they barely spoke a word to one another. They used Draco to get at one another. Mother would shower him with affection aplenty while she gave Father none. Father would dote on Draco with lavish gifts while Mother was lucky to receive anything more than a card during her birthdays. 

Now—to hear her prattle on about Father and the small sculpture he made of her—Draco could tell that the sparkle of their old mutual affections was back. Perhaps not the intense passion they once held, but Draco had hope that—one day—he would see that ardour in his parents again.

“Draco, my darling, tell me how you’re doing.” Mother commanded when she caught on to the fact that Draco hadn’t said much since the start of tea. 

“Fine.” He replied with a careless air and tried to bring the conversation back to her. “So you’ve been enjoying cooking for yourself and Father? Seems rather adventurous for you, Mother.” 

She narrowed her grey eyes at him, “Don’t try to distract me away from you, Draco.” 

He sighed. It’d been about two months since they last spoke, and that was a significant time for either of them to not write. Draco had been busy freaking out over the child within him while he was organising another charity fundraiser for the Minister’s Dragonpox Foundation. Mother had apparently been distracted with her newfound love for her husband. Now, Draco wasn’t sure how to begin to tell her that he was up the spout with an illegitimate Potter spawn. 

Her eyes were knowing, always had been, and when she commanded him to speak, Draco did. “I’m pregnant, Mother.” 

A raised eyebrow was the only indication she gave that showed she’d heard him. “Well, this certainly explains why you’re looking rounder in the face.” Draco responded with a weak laugh before she reached over to clasp his hand. “Are you planning a wedding?” Draco’s withering look was his answer and she grinned, “Is he out of the picture, Draco, or is this someone I’ll be meeting?” 

“I’m still debating whether or not I should tell him.” A vexing back and forth, of pros and cons, that kept Draco awake most nights—telling Potter was a frightening prospect, as was not telling him. Potter did have a famous temper, after all. 

Mother didn’t appear near as aghast as he expected her to be; rather she was watching him with a considering expression. “Give it some thought, love, and know that I will support you. In all things.” 

Draco felt lighter when he replied, “Thank you, Mother.” 

**

Potter was at the far corner of Draco’s mind when he went shopping one afternoon with Pansy and Greg. La Basilique du Sacré-Cœur was, ironically enough, the entrance to Paris’s version of Diagon Alley. A rather plain door sat just off the entry, unnoticed by the Muggles—locals and tourists alike—and on a small plaque were the words “Cœur Magique”. Through the inauspicious door was the long, winding line of shops. Maison de la Soie—famed for its fine gowns of silk—was a favourite of Draco’s mother. As was Boudoir Romantique, now that she and Father had rediscovered their physical attraction to one another. Draco had no desire to visit either, even though Pansy kept trying to drag him to Boudoir Romantique. However, Draco was having none of it. He curtly told Greg to make Pansy behave. Which Greg did with a pinch to Pansy’s rear and a soft command to “Knock it off” before he left them to go do some shopping of his own. 

Petite Chérie was full of soft greys, pale pinks, and more white than Draco could stand. It made him frightened as he walked around to inspect the dainty dresses, bonnets, and tiny shoes that seemed too small to ever fit a real infant. 

Pansy laughed when he said that aloud, “Darling, she will be this little.” Then, with a judgemental look, added, “Haven’t you ever held an infant?” 

“No,” Draco replied immediately. “They’re too noisy, too messy, too...breakable.” He touched the curve of his stomach, and immediately his daughter started kicking her feet against his innards. She’d been active since the last visit with his Healer; the visit in which they discovered there would be a little Pleione Malfoy entering the world rather than a Scorpius. Draco touched a small, royal purple dress. “I like this one,” he said—holding it up for Pansy’s inspection. 

She nodded in approval, “Better than the funeral number you selected when we first walked in.” 

“Black is a good colour, Pansy,” Draco argued as he had when he first selected that particular velvet gown. 

“For a grown woman, not a wee baby,” Pansy insisted, again—gesturing to her own form-hugging black dress. “It’s too macabre for Pleione.” 

“Well I like it,” he hissed and she shrugged, dropping the matter while Draco strode towards the elaborate counter to pay. 

Bags in hand Pansy led the way out of the shop, and glanced right before she looked left, “Where do you suppose Greg’s gone?” 

“One guess is Voler Avec Quafflepunchers,” Draco said as he started left down the cobble paved path. “Why anyone would want to be seen in the Quafflepunchers shop, let alone their colours is beyond me—I thought Greg was a proud Pudd United man.” 

“Pudd was his team, up until we left school, and then the Magpies started destroying them,” Pansy corrected, and Draco smirked knowingly. Much as she liked to complain about Greg, Draco knew Pansy had a soft spot in her heart for him. “However, Greg’s flexible, he might just switch teams again.” Draco didn’t think much of her tone when she moved on to a different topic, “When’s Lucius’s first show?” 

“Never, if he has a say,” Draco snorted, before stopping suddenly due to the heavenly smell wafting out the door of a small cafe. 

Pansy made a face when he started in that direction, “I’m going to get fat hanging out with you, Draco.” Then softer she added, “You’d better love me when I’m fat.” 

“Of course I will,” Draco sniffed. “I’ll even love you when you’re a shrivelled up old prune.” 

“Bite your bloody tongue,” Pansy told him as she cocked out a slim hip. “I’ll never be old, or shrivelled.” Draco grinned at her ridiculousness. 

Once they were seated and served, Draco let Pansy steer the conversation back around to Lucius’s art. 

“I’m surprised he doesn’t want to show it off,” Pansy admitted before she took a drink of her coffee. Draco made a face just watching her—he’d never been fond of how exceptionally bitter French coffee was. To stomach French coffee, he had to drown it with sugar and cream. These days Draco was content with water and a hot, buttered croissant. 

“Father says he’s making art to find himself, not to share.” Draco replied, tone casual before he groaned around a bite of his croissant. 

“The money would be wonderful if he really got his foot in the door,” Pansy added with a thoughtful hum before she nicked a bite of Draco’s food. 

“He’s rich, Pansy,” Draco replied with a pragmatic tone. 

“Yeah, but doesn’t mean he can’t give all the gold to you.” Pansy shrugged before she tried to steal another bite. Draco pinched her on the back of the hand and glared. She called him something ugly in Italian. 

Draco rolled his eyes, “If you’re so interested in him doing a gallery showing then why don’t you talk to your mother about it?” 

Pansy pulled a face, “I tried, she said associating with a known Death Eater would reflect badly on the gallery. Unless he’s the next Bernini she’s not running the risk...fucking bitch.” 

He patted her on the hand, lovingly stroking the red mark he pinched into her skin moments before, “It’s okay, Pansy. I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to show the world.” Which was odd, but true. Draco’s father had always been a showoff, the sort of man who had to command the attentions of whole rooms; a braggart and a prat. Now, however, when Draco would watch him in that large, near barren room he saw a man in love with the pallid stone beneath his hands. A man rediscovering himself. In that room, Lucius Malfoy was reborn. 

“But I want the world to see,” Pansy tried again. 

Brow furrowed Draco asked, “Why?” Truly he was confused. 

“I want them to forgive him.” Draco thought that was too much and told her such. 

“Don’t ever say that to him, or to anyone else.” When she appeared ready to protest he used a more commanding tone. “Don’t. His sentence was light, and there will never be forgiveness for him. He neither wants or needs it—don’t try to fill his head with hopes that will devastate him when they never come to fruition.” 

“I want them to forgive him for you,” Pansy whispered, and Draco touched her cheek with a gentle press of his fingers. Loving her despite her stupidity. 

“I don’t need them to forgive Lucius, love, I know who he is now.” 

**

Lunch on Cœur Magique became a recurring pastime for him and Pansy. She’d taken up temporary residence in Paris to be close to him, and  _ the lovely little Malfoy _ . Mrs Parkinson had never made Pansy’s life easy, and he suspected their frequent rows about Pansy’s lack of a husband had finally sent Pansy to the continent. In their youth, her mother would needle Pansy to the point of tears—over awful things like her weight, her face, her everything. Draco remembered the days spent with Pansy while she cried as she made herself sick-up into dirty U-bends at school. 

“Have you talked to her?” Draco enquired, one afternoon, interrupting Pansy as she prattled on and on about her latest boyfriend. A boyfriend who was a shit as far as Draco could tell. One day she and Greg would finally collide, but Draco was certain it wouldn’t happen for another decade—at least. Pansy had a lot of wild oats to sow. 

“Mother?” Pansy asked with a sour look, “No. I don’t plan on it either.” 

“She’s your mother,” Draco tried, but Pansy shot him a look. 

“Not all mothers love their children the way Narcissa loves you, Draco.” She hesitated for a moment, “Look, I love you—you know that, yes?” He nodded and she let out a breath, “I love you, but you don’t know shit. I don’t need you nosing in when it comes to her. I don’t need you trying to make me talk to her.” 

“You might regret it, Pansy,” he reasoned, but she glared again. 

“Yeah, and that’ll be my problem. Not yours. Drop it, and listen to me talk about Gavin’s cock.” 

Potter’s surprised voice pulled Draco’s attention away from Pansy—some many vulgar descriptions of Gavin’s cock later—“Malfoy?” 

Startled, Draco gaped up at him, “Potter, what are you doing here?” Of all the people he could run into in Paris, it would have to be Potter. For fuck’s sake. 

“I had a broom signing at the Quafflepunchers’ shop,” Potter took a seat with them, as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if it was a done thing between them, as if they were all  _ friends _ . From the table beside them, Potter pulled over another chair and motioned for the child Draco had not previously noticed. 

At nine, Teddy Lupin looked nothing like his father. Rather he had the delicate yet sharp features of a Black—features Draco himself had, and it was startling to think that his daughter could grow to look a great deal like the boy before him. Draco didn’t have any other young cousins to give him an idea of what his Pleione would grow to resemble, so he was immediately fascinated with Teddy. 

His silence dragged on, and Potter, the thick git, took it to mean Draco was waiting for Potter to introduce the long lost cousins to one another. “Ted, this is Draco Malfoy—he’s your mum’s cousin.” 

“You knew my mum?” Teddy asked, a hopeful lilt to his tone and an excited gleam to his bright eyes that shifted from green to grey. Draco remembered, as he watched this child easily change, that Nymphadora had been a Metamorphmagus. A skill she’d apparently passed on to her son. 

“Sadly,” Draco replied, voice gentle, “I did not have the pleasure of meeting your mother.” He didn’t look to Potter when he added, “It was a bad time then; I had a different set of beliefs, as did my parents, and so I was not permitted to meet her.” Teddy chewed on his bottom lip, appearing awfully worried and sad, but Draco smiled when he added, “I am glad, however, that I’ve been able to meet you. Metamorphing is a talent, indeed.” 

He was proud of himself when Teddy beamed, “I learnt that from my mum.” 

“She was very special, then,” Draco spoke with another gentle tone. When he looked up Pansy was watching him with a smug little smile, and Potter was staring at him in something akin to shock. At first Draco thought Potter somehow noticed his burgeoning stomach beneath the concealing charms, and had a moment of panic surge through him. 

“I didn’t know you were good with kids, Malfoy.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, managing not to sigh out in relief as he drawled, “Please, Potter, just because I’m not familiar with taking care of children does not make me useless at interacting with them.” That was a complete lie—before this moment Draco had never interacted with a child outside of what was expected of him when he was a Prefect. However, he wasn’t about to admit that to Potter. Not when Potter was so obviously good at taking care of children. He had a charming smile that was all paternal warmth when he waited patiently for Teddy to read over the menu, and was just as tolerant when Teddy changed his mind no less than four times before finally making up his mind. 

Like Pansy, Potter drank his coffee black. A bark of laughter left his tan throat when he saw the disgusted expression on Draco’s face. “I thought your lot was fucking posh, only drinking their coffee black and bitter.” 

“I don’t like bitter things,” Draco immediately replied. 

Potter’s grin was wolfish when he spoke next, in a tone that was pitched just a little too low, “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Pansy looked positively delighted when she caught Draco’s eye, and was even smugger when Potter struck up more conversation. 

“So what brings you to Paris?” Out of habit, before Draco could answer, Potter gave a soft command, “Wipe your mouth,” as he cut a sideways glance at Teddy. Then just as suddenly his attention was fully Draco’s once more. “I thought it was odd that Daphne Greengrass was the one to arrange the charity event for the Potter House.” 

“My parents, we’re in Montmartre right now—Father’s discovering himself as a sculptor, Mother’s falling in love again, and I’m-,” he stopped, suddenly, realising this wasn’t Greg, or Pansy, or even Daphne. “I’m just trying to figure out what I’m doing with life,” was what he settled for and Potter nodded as if he understood. “You? Why were you, of all people, at a Quafflepunchers’ shop?” 

Potter shrugged, “I met with their owner, Jean-Claude Dufort, today to talk about possibly signing a contract with their team.” 

“You’d leave Britain?” Draco was visibly shocked, as was Pansy, Teddy seemed more interested in looking around at the patrons than what the adults were discussing. 

“If the money was right, yes,” Potter’s tone was pompous. 

“You’re fuck rich, Potter,” Pansy cut in, and rolled her eyes when Potter seemed surprised she knew that, “Don’t give me that look. I keep up with knowing everyone who’s worth knowing’s business. You’ve got the combined worth of two old fortunes—the Black Family’s and the Potters’. Not to mention the seven-year contract you signed with the Magpies—that got you more money than any previous deal in league history.” With a coy expression she added, “Though I imagine that was more for the weight of your name than your ability. The Magpies were strong before you, and figured they could handle having a shit Seeker if it got them more publicity. I bet it was a surprise for them to discover that you’re actually quite talented on a broom.” 

“Not just a broom,” Potter quipped with a lavish smile, and Pansy chuckled. Then with a more serious look, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, but when my contract ran its course I decided to see if anyone would want to bite—the Quafflepunchers seemed the best fit. We’re not negotiated yet; first I wanted to see how Teddy liked France.” 

“And how do you like it,” Pansy asked, gaining Teddy’s attention. 

“S’not bad,” he shrugged, “I really like the flat Dad’s got here.” 

Draco looked at Potter expectantly and with a rather bored expression Potter told them, “It’s in the 8th arrondissement, close to Parc Monceau.” A small smirk pulled across his face when he added, “It’s probably opulent enough to impress even your lot, Malfoy.” 

** 

Potter’s flat was every bit as beautiful as the flat Draco’s mother inherited from her mother’s side of the family, and seemed the opposite of Potter’s personality. Draco saw Potter with a yard, in a home that was pretty in the cosy sense, not the extravagant manner. Perhaps this was further proof that he didn’t really know Potter. 

“Whatever would you need with four bedrooms,” Draco asked as he took a seat in one of the chairs in the sitting room. Running the pads of his fingers along the glossy, intricately carved arm, Draco marvelled at how incredibly surreal this all was. 

“I might have more kids one day, Malfoy,” Potter laughed while Teddy frowned at the suggestion. 

Pansy ran her hand along the line of Draco’s shoulder when he tensed, and seamlessly inserted herself into the conversation, “No one is stupid enough to breed with you, Potter.” Potter managed to appear only mildly offended. “But I must say, this is not the sort of place I’d ever see you in.” 

“That’s what Hermione said when they popped round last night. I figure if I hate it too terribly I can sell and move. I’m not too worried.” Draco could tell he wasn’t. Potter stood with a relaxed stance and smiled when he watched Teddy walk off in the direction of his room. “Drink,” he asked them. Pansy told him she wanted wine and Draco said he was fine with water. 

“Last time we went for a piss up, Malfoy, I remembered you were rather fond of the drink.” Potter’s words were nonchalant, but they filled Draco with anxiety and he only just managed to keep his hands from flying to his stomach. 

“I’ve been feeling off, Potter, or I’d accept your offer.” How he managed a level voice, Draco would never know. 

“Suit yourself,” that was the nice thing about this later in life version of Potter; he was done with pushing and was done with prying. 

** 

It was odd, to say the least, being around Potter. They fell into the role of friends as easily as they had fallen into bed with one another all those years ago. Even when Potter had Floo’d the house that first time, there was a moment when Draco was worried this entire thing would fall down around him. However, Potter had been polite with Father when he asked if he could speak to Draco. 

After that, it had been  _ easy _ which was terrifying. 

Most training days Teddy came to sit with Draco and Mother, while Father locked himself away in his studio. At first he had worried over that as well, but Mother was absolutely thrilled with Teddy. Hugging him to her as soon as they were introduced and telling him to call her, “Nana”. From the way Teddy clung to Mother when he came around, Draco could tell he was just as thrilled with her. 

**

When Draco was about eight and a half months gone, Potter suggested that they go to bed together and Draco froze. 

“What?” Draco looked up from where he was cutting carrots to steam for their dinner. 

Potter stood, slim hip cocked out against the counter, and watched Draco with hooded, lustful eyes, “It’s been a long while, Draco, and I remember you were rather talented on your back.” 

Swallowing, Draco sat his knife down and turned his back to Potter, not wanting to look at him when he spoke, “Potter, look—there’s—I just can’t right now.” 

It was Potter’s turn to be confused, “What?” 

Draco debated lying, but Potter was here now, was in his life, as his friend, and it might not be so bad to share his secret. When Draco dropped his maternity cloak, the concealing charm went with it and there was no way Potter wouldn’t see. Blind as he was even Potter could tell Draco was pregnant. His mouth dropped open, in a rather humorous and hideous way, but Draco was too terrified to laugh. 

“Fuck,” Potter muttered, voice pitched low and full of—regret, disappointment, self-deprecation—Draco wasn’t sure, but whatever it was wasn’t good. Potter slid his glasses off of his face, set them against the counter, and massaged his closed eyes. “Is it mine?” 

Draco wanted to lie—he wanted to go back to the fun that they’d been having these past few months. However, he didn’t. Draco looked Potter square in the eye and said, “Yes, she is.” 

“Malf-,” Draco didn’t give him the chance to finish. 

“I get it, Potter,” he let out a half-choked laugh, “Really, I didn’t expect any different—it’s why I never told you.” Before Potter could say more, before Draco could take in Potter’s expression he walked past Potter, and went to the Floo. 

He wasn’t ready to admit that it would crush his heart if Potter told him he didn’t want their daughter. Even worse, Draco wasn’t ready to admit that he would break if Potter said he didn’t want Draco. 

** 

Potter hadn’t sent Teddy to Draco since their spat, and Draco pretended he didn’t care when his mother would ask after Teddy’s absence. 

It was a cold day when Draco went into labour, and Potter was, once again, at an away game. Teddy had been photographed with Weasel’s sister at one of Potter’s games, and Draco worked himself up into enough of a snit that his water broke. 

Mother and Father were away at the time; gone off on a romantic holiday, and so Draco Floo’d alone to the maternity ward. 

“Is there anyone I can call for you,” the Healer’s Aid was kind, but Draco told her he was fine on his own. He had to be fine for there was about to be a small human whose entire world would depend on Draco alone. 

**

Pansy was the first person Draco saw when he opened his eyes. It had been a long labour. Painful and exhausting, but when he’d heard Pleione’s cry he knew everything was perfect and well with the world. The Healers had taken her to the nursery when Draco said he needed sleep, despite the fact he wanted to hold Pleione for hours he knew that he needed rest. 

“You came,” he whispered, sitting up, and Pansy’s dark gaze lifted from the bundle in her arms. 

With wet eyes, her voice trembled, “Draco, darling, she’s absolutely wonderful.” 

He laughed and found that the action pained him, so with a grimace he replied, “She’d better be; that fucking hurt.” 

**

The papers confirmed Potter’s new contract with the Quafflepunchers. Draco felt bitter towards Potter when he dropped the paper on the table, his breakfast seemed unappetising now, and he turned his focus toward the window. The day was glorious, clear, with people chattering in the streets—unhurried as they made their way to work, or home from a night spent out like one of Draco’s fetching neighbours. He envied them as he opened the glass doors to his veranda, letting the scents of the city breathe into him. 

He couldn’t say how long he stood there, watching the world as it moved around him, but he was broken from the spell when Pleione began to cry. 

“So life continues,” Draco murmured, turning into the apartment to fetch the baby from her crib. “Little love,” he whispered, leaning over the antique silver rail of her crib—lifting her slight weight into his arms. Snuggling her warm body against his lean chest, Draco whispered against her blonde hair, “You’re fine, Daddy has you.” She soothed as soon as he spoke, whimpering but settling as she wound her fingers in his shirt. “Are you hungry?” He supposed not when her eyelids drooped, and her mouth fell a slight bit open as she fell back to sleep. “My, my,” Draco chuckled to himself, carrying her back into the kitchen so he could pour himself a cup of tea. 

**

Pansy wandered in, uninvited, around noon while Draco was sorting through post from Daphne regarding an event Draco’s personal charity would be hosting. Truth be told, he didn’t want to bother with any of it, but Daphne insisted. He’d had a long enough “holiday” and people were starting to ask questions. 

“What are you doing,” Pansy demanded as she took a dramatic seat before him, crossing her long, mostly exposed legs in a way that was meant to entice—Draco gave her a blank look in response that made her huff. “You’re no fun,” Pansy griped, scooting closer to peer over his shoulder, “What’s this then?” 

“The Malfoy Foundation annual charity event. Daphne says I will help her with this one or she’s through working for me.” 

“She’s a lying bitch, she’d let you choke her to death with your cock if you asked,” Pansy snipped as she snatched one of the proposed plans. 

“Daphne’s well aware that’s never going to happen,” Draco’s reply was offhand, bored almost, because by now he was well acquainted with Pansy’s disgusting manners. 

“I’m telling you, darling, she still dreams about your glorious cock.” Before he could tell her to stuff it she sucked in a breath, “You approved a family fair with Quidditch players?” 

“I didn’t see the harm,” he flipped through the list of activities Daphne had pre-selected to set up in the park near the small pitch they had on the outskirts of Hogsmead. 

“Potter is one of the pre-selected Quidditch players,” Pansy stated with a huff, “I know there is no way you approved him.” 

“What,” Draco ripped the parchment from her hand, scanning down the long list and—sure enough—there was Potter’s signature. “Christ,” he swore, “Of course she didn’t think to ask for approval for him—he’s kid-friendly and has worked well with us in the past.” 

When Pleione started fussing from her small play yard Pansy rested a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder, “I’ll get her.” Then with a kind smile she went to fetch Pleione. Draco hardly paid them any mind. He was too busy scowling at the parchment before him. 

**

Mother came to the event, unaware of the tension building in Draco as he scanned about the field covered in brightly coloured tents. “Look, love,” she pulled at his arm, “There’s a small bounce house.” 

“Just because she can walk does not mean she needs to go jumping about with giant children, Mother,” Draco reminded, and then went back to wrestling with his daughter who was busy trying to crawl out of his arms. “Calm down,” he tried pleading with her, but it was no use. Pleione let out an awful scream, as if Draco were torturing her, and he winced when several people turned to see what was going on. 

A chuckle came from Mother, and when Draco levelled a glare her way she laughed louder, “You’re definitely getting what you deserve.” She bent to scoop Pleione into her arms from where Draco was crouched with her, trying to calm her down. Mother pressed a rapid succession of quick kisses to Pleione’s chubby cheek, “You were an awful terror, and this is nothing compared to that.” 

Scowling Draco stood, embarrassed by his daughter and the horrible reminder that he was no angel. “We could take her to the-,” his words were cut off when a small body smacked into him. It was on the tip of his tongue to reprimand, but when he saw the familiar eyes of Teddy Lupin staring up at him Draco’s words withered on his tongue. 

“Teddy,” Potter’s voice pulled them from their short moment, and Draco stumbled back an unconscious step when he lifted his gaze to see Potter standing there with Weasley’s sister. “Oh,” was all Potter said when he found his tongue, and then with a closed-off expression said, “Ted, c’mon, I thought you wanted to go see Oliver.” It was as Potter was directing Teddy away, along with the girl Weasley, that Pleione began to scream. 

“Shhh,” Draco hurried to soothe, gathering her into his arms when she reached for him from the circle of her grandmother’s arms, “Shhh, sweet, sweet girl.” Draco didn’t register the fact that he was nearly crying until his mother spoke. 

“Draco.” 

“I have to go,” he said, voice thick with tears, “I’ve got to get her home. She’s sick or something.” 

Mother’s grey eyes went to Potter, and Draco didn’t look to see what sort of expression Potter was wearing—he focused on Mother, and saw the moment when understanding dawned in her eyes. Her mouth went tight with fury, and Draco had a moment to react and catch her arm before she could lift her wand. 

“Let’s just take Pleione home,” Draco whispered, and Mother’s sneer could curdle the blood of the damned when she agreed. 

**

After Draco explained everything his mother sat in silence, watching him with eyes he’d never seen before. She ordered food through the Floo and brushed her fingers through his silken hair while he unwrapped expensive chocolates. They were silent for hours, Pleione went with Father for the night. He told Draco they would go to the sea, look up at the stars and build sandcastles as he had done with Draco before he lost his smile. The nanny elf Draco hired kept him from worrying too terribly as he’d watched his father whisk his daughter away. 

Now the silence was heavy, and he missed her cries, but Mother whispered, “Grieve, Draco, mourn your lost love so that you can face the dawn with a smile.” 

What sort of smile was that he wondered, and if she’d tried to reach for his thoughts his mother would’ve heard it. 

“I didn’t love him,” Draco whispered, instead, stubborn to admit the truth even as the tears fell freely from his eyes. 

“Yes, my love,” Mother replied with her own choked tone, “You did, and I’d wager to say you still do.” 

Draco hated that she was right. 

**

Mother left him at midnight, and Draco filled his deep, clawfoot tub with the rose-scented oil that Pansy insisted he needed for his birthday. He looked a fright when he saw his puffy eyes in the mirror. He lowered the candlelight around him to a dim glow and slipped his clothing to the marbled floor before he stepped into the water. There was a tray of strawberries he’d brought in with him and a chilled glass of champagne; he grabbed the glass, downing the contents in one go before he chased the lingering taste with a juicy strawberry. 

He reheated the bath twice, maybe more, and finished off two bottles of champagne, blinking rapidly as he kept slipping in the tub. 

“Malfoy,” the shout jolted him, causing Draco to slosh water all over the floor of his private bath. 

“Christ,” he swore, and moved to get up but slipped—dizzy—back into the tub. Strong arms went around his waist. Hoisting him from the water as a familiar voice whispered that he was a fucking idiot. When he was settled into his bed, wrapped in a fluffy robe, Draco finally realised what was happening. “Potter,” he half-shouted, suddenly sober. “Why are you here?” 

Potter’s face was hard to read when Draco wasn’t intoxicated, but was harder yet in the dim room with two bottles of drink sloshing around his belly. 

“You’re drunk,” Potter stupidly pointed out. 

“Cheers,” Draco replied with a mocking tone, “So good of you to notice.” 

Potter appeared torn between annoyance and concerned when he stepped closer to where Draco was sat. “You never wrote me.” 

It took a minute for Draco to process that, but when he finally did his anger boiled the booze right out of him. “What?” It was a savage sound, sharp with an intense hiss. 

Unafraid of the warning, Potter repeated his words and added, “After that night, you never wrote to me after you left.”

A bitter laugh tumbled out of Draco. “What?” Potter looked ready to say something more, but Draco held up a hand—silencing any words that he might have said. “You never bothered to talk to me, Potter. Why should I have called you?” 

Potter’s vivid eyes were hard, burning with the same anger as the first night that he glared down at Draco as he fucked him against a stall wall of the loo. “You left.” He threw up his hands, and Draco got distracted by the paler skin that was on the soft underside of his strong arms. “You dropped a baby bomb on me and made it seem like you didn’t want me or for me to be involved.” There was obvious hurt in his tone. “Then you took off and I kept hoping you’d ring at the Floo or write...but you never did.” 

Draco’s vicious mind chose that moment to remind him of the paper—of Weasley’s sister standing beside Teddy at one of Potter’s games. Then he remembered the afternoon, in gruesome detail—how Potter had his arm around her shoulders and the hurt intensified in him. “You...” he sobbed. Then hissed—angry with himself and with Potter. “Were you fucking her when you fucked me, Potter? Did you fuck her with the slick we used still on your prick?” 

Potter’s thick eyebrows furrowed, “What are you on about?” 

“Weasley’s sister,” he screamed. Draco clutched at Potter’s shirt, and the warmth that radiated from Potter’s skin caused his own body to ache with want for the memory of that skin. Potter’s face was closer to his, a breath away. Draco hissed his next words against Potter’s soft mouth. “Did you fuck any of those tarts while I was still on your skin, while my taste was still in your mouth?” 

“No,” Potter replied—voice a low rumble that went right to Draco’s cock. “How could I fuck anyone else after you?” Draco didn’t ask more questions. He couldn’t when his mouth was suddenly occupied by Potter’s talented tongue. 

When they broke apart Potter asked a similar question, “Who got to see you like this while I was gone?” His eyes tracked over Draco’s face—as if it were some private treasure only Potter should witness. “Who knew this vulnerable Malfoy?” 

“No one,” Draco assured, as he opened his robe. “It’s been too long, Potter—shut up and fuck me.” 

Potter yanked his t-shirt over his head and discarded it behind him. Draco couldn’t think to reprimand him. Not when Potter’s strong, golden skin was bare before him. Not when Potter was shucking his jeans and showing Draco his hard, beautiful cock. 

In the bedside cabinet, Potter found the slick Draco kept for the rare moments he had time for a wank. He greased up his long, slim fingers and commanded Draco to hold his knees. Draco did as told, and watched as Potter drew his lower lip between his perfect teeth. Familiar fingers danced against the soft flesh of his arsehole. Draco sighed out in relief when they breached him. 

“Memories aren’t the same as this,” Potter murmured. His eyes went half-lidded and reverent. “Fuck, Draco, you’re beautiful.” 

He nearly came—like an over-eager virgin—from those words and Potter’s gentle fingering. A whine escaped him and Potter interpreted the sound correctly. It made him chuckle. 

“Don’t come so soon, love. I’ve been starved for months.” 

**

Words that had been a promise. 

Potter fucked him for hours. Exhausting Draco to the point where Potter had to do all the work at the end. Something Potter gladly did—because the bastard loved showing off. He’d held Draco against the cushy velvet curtains that covered the tall windows. Fucked him against them until he finally came within Draco’s pliant, fucked out body. 

Now they were laid in Draco’s bed. Potter had lit a rare cigarette and was smoking it as he checked his magical mobile—a device that was becoming more and more popular these days. 

“What’re you doing?” Draco asked him as he moved closer, to rest his head on Potter’s hard shoulder. 

“Hmm?” Potter hummed. Then—seeming to hear the question—said, “Oh, I was just checking my texts. Hermione and Ron have Teddy and I wanted to make sure he was doing all right.” That seemed to make him remember the whole issue between them. The daughter Potter had yet to meet. He coughed, “So where is...” 

Draco laughed as Potter trailed off from the lack of their daughter’s name. “Pleione. Her name is Pleione.” 

Potter pulled an unimpressed face, “Really? That’s what you named my daughter?” 

“It’s a fine family name, Potter. Better than anything you might’ve concocted.” Draco wasn’t about to say how atrocious he found the name  _ Lily  _ to be out of respect for Potter’s dead mother. 

“I’m naming the next one,” and that assertion made Draco’s stomach do a funny sort of flip. 

“What?” 

“You heard me, Draco.” He snuffed out the end of his cigarette and then turned to hold Draco closer. “Next kid you give me, I’m naming it something boring and normal. LIke Ron.”

“I’ll fucking hex you if you name any son of mine after Weasley.” 

**

Mother came in when Draco was still trying to figure out how to tell her he and Potter had fucked the night before. Only he wasn’t going to say _fucked_. He was planning on telling her they had become a couple—because that was the tame way normal persons told their mothers they’d just had wild monkey sex. 

She hadn’t given him long enough to prepare his heart, or long enough to chase Potter out of his house. She came in right as Potter was busy sucking claiming marks into the white flesh of Draco’s stomach. 

Her mouth went thin. 

“Mother,” Draco shouted. He tried to knock Potter away, but it was hard when Draco was backed against a wall and Potter was on his knees in front of him.

“Shit,” Potter swore softly. There was no way to protect their modesty—she’d certainly seen them in all of their lusting glory. A fact Draco would never live down for the remainder of his life, he was certain. 

“I’ll give both of you ten minutes to freshen up before you join me in the sitting room.” Mother’s voice had that cold, disappointed ring. A sound Draco had not heard in years. It sent a chill down his spine as she walked from the room. 

“It’s okay,” Potter said with a gentle tone. As if anything more than a whisper would break the glass of Draco’s heart. “I’ve fought worse.” 

“I don’t want to fight my mum,” Draco swallowed. 

“Then we won’t. I’ll get on my knees and beg her to allow me the honour of loving you.” Potter’s calloused palm was warm against his cheek. 

Draco’s stomach did another funny flip—a common occurrence while he was in Potter’s presence. “You’re a sentimental fool,” Draco told him, but the words were to cover his embarrassment. Something Potter must’ve realised for he grinned as he placed a chaste kiss against Draco’s temple. 

“Your fool, Draco Malfoy, until Death calls me to the other side.” 

_ I pray Death calls you when the bastard calls for me; so that we might walk into whatever hell awaits us together.  _

As if reading his thoughts, Potter’s eyes sparkled and he whispered. “Together, Draco. Together.” 

The trials would come, as they were wont to do, but they would face them. A united team after years of miscommunication. Mother, Father, Pleione, Teddy, Pansy, Greg, The Weasels—all of them would be separate challenges in due time. Yet, in that moment, Draco knew that he could face the world and win with Potter by his side. 

“I love you,” he whispered. Honest and raw with Potter in ways he had never been in these years they shared. 

The words caused Potter to stop—his hand gripping at the expensive silver knob of Draco’s bedroom door. He glanced back at Draco with heartbreak and joy dancing on his face. A vulnerable boy and a wounded man were in Potter, as they were also in Draco. 

“I love you, Draco,” Potter finally whispered. Something in his tone told Draco they might be broken but their edges would slot together and all of this would be just fine. 

_ Having love is a powerful thing.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please show the author your appreciation in a comment and by leaving kudos below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of the on-going and anonymous H/D Mpreg fest. The author will be revealed June 21st.


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